Iris
by Shadow Flange
Summary: She needed her calves to be aching in pain, hot blood coursing through her veins, every nerve in her body screaming for release. Short DG ficlet.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimers: **I wish I owned the Harry Potter Series. Actually, I just wish I owned Draco Malfoy. But alas, I do not. 'nuff said.

Ginny Weasley was absolutely furious.

She stormed through corridor leading to the Gryffindor Common Room with the all the wrath of the Mongol hordes of Genghis Khan; her face flushed with a color that could put the fiery curls atop her head to shame.

"Stupid git! I hate him, I hate him, I – _pixie pastries_ -- HATE HIM!" she screamed, flinging open the Fat Lady's painting and sending it spinning on its hinges before charging into the common room. Thankfully, the chamber was empty as everyone was currently in the Great Hall, enjoying the festivities of the Beltane Ball. Nobody would notice she was missing.

After all, she was just Ron Weasley's baby sister.

Angrily, Ginny hurled a cheerful gold cushion into the fireplace, taking a fierce pleasure in its long cottony wail as the innocent pillow burned to a crisp.

"Little sister eh?! Like your bloody _little sister_, am I?"

With a half exasperated half resigned sigh, Ginny plopped down on the couch, occupying the spot where the cremated pillow had been and ran her hands madly through her already mussed hair. She had completely humiliated herself tonight.

How could she ever look into those gorgeous green eyes again, knowing that she'd…

Blushing furiously, Ginny rose, pacing back and forth through the thick red rug before deciding on taking refuge in her dormitory. She collapsed onto the bed, burying her face into the warmth of the blankets and clutching a goose down pillow firmly against her chest, before letting the tears flow.

She could recall the exact day that her unfortunate case of unrequited love began. It was the last day of summer and her mother had brought her along to see her brothers off to school. This was nothing special in itself as it was simply Weasley tradition. However, this year marked the beginning of her first year alone, without the annoying yet reassuring presence of Ron & Co. She had clung to her mother's hand, weaving through the throngs of unsuspecting Muggles to keep up. They were late. Her mother had pushed Fred and George forward and Percy had already disappeared through the barrier with his trunk. Ron was wringing his hands anxiously, his face glowing with anticipation.

And there he was. Standing exactly three-quarters of the way between Platforms 9 and 10, looking utterly lost and panicked. It wasn't until he'd tapped her mother on the shoulder asking for help, that she realized who he was, catching a glimpse of the fabled scar behind his tousled black hair.

And that was how it had all started. She supposed that it was just simple curiosity at first. He fascinated her to no end. Not even a toddler, and he had survived the death sentence of the deadliest Dark Wizard in history. Did he remember the day he had vanquished Voldemort? What happened? What was life like without his parents? She had a million questions to ask him.

And spring became summer, and summer became autumn. As she began her first year at Hogwarts, Ginny found that she was more than just curious – she was completely infatuated. She found herself unwittingly stealing glances at him across the dinner table, examining him in the library as he perused a book, memorizing the way he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the way he furrowed his brows when he was thinking, and the way the wind ruffled the hair above his pale forehead when he played Quidditch. When she closed her eyes at night, all she could see was his rosy cheeks and spring green eyes and his pink lips, slightly parted. She dreamed of dancing with him, of holding his delicate long fingered hand in hers…and she dreamt of other things, perhaps not quite so innocent. At some point during her fourth year, she finally realized that her love, if that were what it truly was, would never be reciprocated. It wasn't as if he didn't like her, for he had always been polite and friendly. And it wasn't as though he didn't care; he had saved her life in her first year at Hogwarts. No, it was most likely the fact that he _did _care that irked her. The fact that he cared about everyone, no matter how loathsome, that she couldn't blame him for anything, and that she could only look at her imperfect self and realize that she simply wasn't good enough for an angel like him.

Hell, It would have been _easier_ to let go if he had disliked her.

With a sigh, the youngest Weasley extricated herself from within the folds of her blankets and examined herself before the mirror on her nightstand.

Ginny didn't delude herself about her looks, nor did she care very much anymore.

She turned her head slightly, noting the sharpness of her cheekbones, the light dusting of freckles across the straight, prominent line of her nose, the thick reddish brows over deep-set eyes, now smeared with rivulets of kohl and tears. Her features were much too strong to be called pretty. In fact, she thought despondently, she looked like a boy. An overgrown, gangly weed of a boy. The demure, prettiness of Cho Chang and Lavender Brown would never be hers.

But tonight had been a special night and she had wanted to look her very best.

So she spent the money that she had been saving up for nearly three years on a new dress robe – a violet one that complimented her hair and complexion quite nicely. She spent nearly an hour in front of the mirror applying a light brush of silver to her eyelids, a coat of shiny pink gloss on her thin lips in hopes of making them look fuller, taming her wild vermilion locks into a semblance of dignity. They had been pinned in an elegant bun at the top of her head, a few curls hanging loose around her face in an artistic fashion. She had even researched a charm to lighten those annoying freckles. Ginny had spent and spent and spent, all for him.

And it had all been in vain.

Because to The Boy Who Lived, she was and would always be "a little sister."

_She sauntered out onto the dance floor, resplendent in her new robes, gaining the attention of many a Hogwarts boy though not the particular one she wanted. There, near the garlands of fresh wildflowers around the maypole, he stood, the apex of his triangle of friends. He was smiling, his black hair in its perpetual state of utterly endearing messiness, the emerald behind his round black glasses curiously bright and lively, his cheeks flushed with color. The small crooked grin turned into a laugh as he shared some joke with Ron and Hermione._

_She approached him slowly as the lights dimmed and a slow melody began to play._

_"Harry, dance with me?"_

_He blinked with something akin to surprise. At the time, she thought that perhaps he had finally noticed that she wasn't just Ron's scrawny little sister, that he finally saw her for who she really was._

_"Of course Gin." He said with a smile._

_She leaned close to him, relishing the feel of his strong arms around her waist, the clean fresh scent of him. Her hands were resting lightly on his shoulders, fingers barely brushing against the smooth skin of his neck. As they slowly swayed, in the near darkness of the Great Hall, only one thought was on Ginny's mind: This, was pure bliss._

_It seemed that only mere seconds later, he was pulling away from her. No longer did she feel the gentle exhalations against her cheek, or the warmth of his arms around her. Ginny stiffened with resolve. No, she couldn't throw away this one chance. She had to do it, to show him how she felt about him._

_So she threaded her hands through the downy blackness of his hair, and with one gentle tug, she pulled his head to hers, her lips seeking out his in an attempt to convey six years of emotion._

_"G-Ginny!" He pushed her away, too startled to be polite._

_"Gin…I'm s-sorry. I just don't think of you in that way. I mean, you're…you're like my little sister."_

A sudden bout of white-hot rage seized her. _Little sister, indeed._

Ginny tore off her black shoes and flung them at her reflection, glaring at it fiercely. Her hair looked as if a family of robins had recently taken up residence. Must have been the result of tearing down four hallways and three flights of stairs. She pulled out the pin that had held it together and gathered the mess in a severe ponytail. Then, she flipped open her trunk and pulled out an old pair of worn trainers and shrugged them on.

She needed to get out.

She needed to feel the thin rubber soles of her shoes slap against the ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the cool night air burning through her lungs.

She needed her calves to be aching in pain, hot blood coursing through her veins, every nerve in her body screaming for release.

But most of all, she needed to feel _alive_.

A/N: So, what do you think? I tried to make her as true to canon as possible. Tis hard. Oh yes, thank you A. Jacelyn, for beta-ing this ficcy! Anyways, please review! I will try to update soon if I don't suddenly run out of motivation or run into a whole lotta homework.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy nearly grimaced when the small, cold hand came to rest upon his shoulder. Idly, he wondered if she was some sort of cold-blooded reptile, a snake perhaps? Or maybe blood was not what ran through her veins.

Of course his pale impassive face did not betray any hint of disgust, but he braced himself for what was to come.

"Drakie dear," purred the sickeningly sweet voice, cloying like the dried syrup, "Dance with me."

"Don't call me that." He snapped, twisting his shoulder out from beneath her claw-like grasp.

Pansy Parkinson pouted, wondering what was wrong with 'her' Draco.

She sat down next to him, purposefully letting her thigh rub against his. It was a trick that always worked with silly teenage boys and their uncontrollable hormones. However, all she received was an icy stare and an equally cold and harsh, "Leave. Me. _Alone_."

"My, my, is the Dragon upset? Perhaps a more _private_ 'dance' back in the Common Room will cheer him up…" she murmured into his ear in what she thought was a seductive manner. 

Unfortunately, it only served to irritate him further.

Not deigning to respond to her sickening proposal, he rose and strode out of the Great Hall, leaving her angry and speechless.

***

The moon was high in the vast blackness of the night sky, throwing the Hogwart's grounds into a balance of bright, illuminated earth interspersed with the darkest of shadows. Draco sat on the steps with his back against the heavy wooden door, staring across the expanse of new spring grass and moonlit lake. The cool night air felt wonderful against his skin and he savored it for a moment before letting out the breath that he had been holding all night. Slowly and deliberately, he traced the grooves that had been worn into the ancient stones.

Tomorrow was his birthday.  

Who am I kidding? It's more of a deathday.

Yes, a lovely deathday, complete with the obligatory Death Eaters and Dark Lord. And of course, it wouldn't be a proper party without a present from his _dear _father and so-called friends, in the form of a mark scorched upon the inside of his forearm, binding him eternally to serve his father's master. 

Yes, just what I've always wanted. And lucky me, one size fits all.

He sighed. He had always known that it was his destiny. In fact, he had embraced the idea of becoming one of the most powerful and fearsome men in the world. 

Until now.

It was the eve of his initiation ceremony, and he was simply nervous…right? But Draco knew it was more than that. His unraveling had begun even before he had arrived at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was on the Hogwart's Express, his very first meeting with one, Harry James Potter, that it began. That fateful day had changed his world forever, though he had certainly not been aware of it at the time. All that he had felt was the blind rage that he, Draco Malfoy, had just been rejected by a little Muggle-loving freak. He had wanted to make the miserable git's life a living hell because _no one_ insulted a Malfoy and got away unscathed -- his father had taught him that. 

So he did everything in his power to get Harry Potter and the Gryffindor Dream Team in trouble. He baited the quick-tempered Weasley, insulted the bookish Mudblood, and tormented the others. Potter, ever the noble Gryffindor, would try his best to ignore whatever scathing comments Draco threw his way while secretly seething inside. Weasley would invariably lash back violently, which often backfired. Literally. And Granger would attempt to hold back the rabid redhead, endeavoring to look unaffected, only to melt into a puddle of tears when she thought no one was watching.

So damn predictable, yet each time he saw the hurt on their faces, he couldn't help but enjoy it. He derived an almost unhealthy amount of pleasure in tormenting them, but it wasn't until much later that he understood the true reason for this.

It was the night the Dark Lord punished his father that led him to conclude that father did not 'know best.'

He was disgusted with the groveling. Malfoys were not made to grovel at the feet of others. 

He was disgusted with the blind obedience.

And most of all, he was disgusted that he had let himself become his fathers little puppet. 

He realized that all those years, he was jealous, yes, _jealous_ of Harry Potter. Not for his "amazing" Quidditch skills or "dashing" looks, but for his _independence_. Harry Potter made his own choices. Lucius Malfoy made Draco's. 

Draco's finger came to a halt as the groove he had been tracing slipped over the edge of the step. Sighing, he lifted his arm and placed it upon his knee, propping his head up in his hands in a posture mirroring that of Rodan's Thinker. As he closed his eyes, a sudden, almost absurd thought hit him.

Tonight was his last night truly alive and he had wasted it at a silly ball with a simpering pug-faced girl whom he detested. He nearly laughed.

What a series of mistakes his life had been. 

And now he was way past redemption. He had already dug himself a nice toasty little pit in hell and it was too late to regret or repent. Not that he was repentant, for that would require a heart, and Malfoy's had no hearts.

Yet he heard the pounding of blood in his ears, a resonating thump for each beat, each contraction. It took him a few seconds to realize that what he was hearing was not from within. 

It was the sound of footsteps.

**Author's Note: **First off, sorry bout the slow update! Flooded with Calc, PSAT scores, regionals and whatnot. Second, thank you very much for the reviews! They were very helpful and I'm glad my vision of Ginny is the same as yours! Great minds think alike ;) Anyways, Winter Break's coming up so hopefully I can find some time to write.

~Flange


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